


they lie there hand in hand

by Sinna



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, projecting my disability on Jon bc I can, technically canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-29 23:29:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15739500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinna/pseuds/Sinna
Summary: Jon, Gerry, and a first meeting that could have been.





	they lie there hand in hand

**Author's Note:**

> title from Bastille's "Flaws"

_Of all the days…_

Jonathan Simms stumbled up the last few stairs and cursed loudly, earning a few disapproving looks from passersby. At this rate, he was going to have to skip coffee entirely if he was to have any chance of making it on time. This whole day was quickly turning into a disaster, and he was half tempted to just turn around, take the tube home, and forget the damn interview.

“You okay?”

Jon jumped and nearly lost his balance again as a voice sounded a bit too close to his left ear.

“Yes I’m fine, I just… I’m fine.”

He made to turn away, but a hand gripped his shoulder. Jon could barely make out black nails and dark… marks of some sort… on the knuckles.

“Are you sure? You look pretty… disoriented.”

That was the last straw. Jon – unsuccessfully – tried to shove the stranger away.

“Yes I’m sure! What, can a man not lose his _bloody_ _glasses_ without everyone in the world trying to make a big deal out of it?”

The hand abruptly released his shoulder.

“Oh. I’m sorry. You looked…”

Jon sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I know. I look drunk, or high, or whatever.”

“You looked lost,” finished the man.

Jon looked up in surprise. He could barely make out the features of the man who stood little more than a foot away from him. Black hair, head tilted slightly to the side, dark clothes. His hands had already vanished into pockets or behind his back.

“Yes, well, directions aren’t terribly easy when you can’t see the street signs.”

He really needed to stop antagonizing this stranger who seemed to only want to help, but his mouth had always been faster than his brain.

“Where are you trying to get to?”

Jon recited the address with practiced ease. He’d told Georgie three times already. She was oddly suspicious of this interview. Just because _she_ didn’t remember him applying there. And even if he didn’t remember either – he’d applied to a lot of places, okay? He couldn’t remember all of them – it wasn’t impossible that someone had recommended him for the position.

The man was silent for a moment, considering. Then, he reached out and clasped Jon’s hand in his own.

“I’ll get you there.”

His skin was an odd texture… scarred and uneven, except for the places it was oddly smooth. Jon couldn’t even begin to imagine what injuries had caused that. He knew better than to ask.

“Are you looking to make statement?” the man asked.

Jon shook his head.

“Job interview.”

He must have imagined the grip tightening around his own.

“What’s the job?” There was something in the man’s voice. He was deliberately holding something back. Jon wanted to know what it was.

“Why does it matter?” he asked.

“It doesn’t. Just… be careful around the archives, okay?”

Jon scoffed.

“What? Just because it’s an organization for studying the human insistence on the supernatural doesn’t mean they have some sort of closet full of cursed items.” He pushed down the memory that skittered at the edge of his consciousness on eight spindly legs. “But if it makes you feel better, the job is as a researcher. All upstairs work, from what I understand.”

This time, Jon couldn’t pretend he didn’t feel the man’s hand relax in relief.

“You know the institute?” he asked, confused by the reactions.

“I’ve done some freelance work for the head archivist,” Tall, Dark, and Goth explained. “Ms. Robinson… isn’t exactly the kindest boss.”

There was something there. Some bitterness. Or… protectiveness?

“Thanks for the tip. I doubt she’s any worse than my last boss though.”

That drew a laugh out of his companion. Bitter, but musical. Jon considered asking if he was in a band. He seemed like the type who would be in a band. Jon might even go out to see him perform. As thanks. If this guy got him to his interview on time. Or something. He could probably think up some sort of excuse.

“We’re here,” the man said softly, drawing Jon out of what was quickly becoming an embarrassing daydream.

Jon looked around, as if that might help anything. The man pointed past the shimmering blur of the busy street in front of them.

“It’s just across the street. I trust you can at least see enough to recognize a walk signal?”

He couldn’t recognize the shape, but he could at least make out the color, which was good enough. And yet…

“You’re not coming?”

“I’d rather not get any closer, if you don’t mind.”

“I suppose it would be rude to take up any more of your time.” Jon was still disappointed. But he’d been raised to be polite. “Thank you, Mr…?”

“Call me Gerry.”

The flash of white that appeared in his face probably meant he was smiling. Jon smiled back.

“Thank you, Jerry.”

There was a moment of hesitation, where neither of them seemed eager to separate their clasped hands.

Finally, Gerry pulled away. Within moments, he was gone, lost among the colorful blur of London’s foot traffic. Jon didn’t even try to find him. Something told him he wouldn’t have been able to, even if he had perfect eyesight.

Instead, he crossed the street and entered The Magnus Institute.

\--

Gerry was half-tempted to turn his phone off when he saw who was calling. It wouldn’t actually help anything, but it might make him feel better for a few minutes.

Instead, he sighed and answered it.

“Gertrude. What do you want?”

“There’s a man about to exit the tube a few blocks south of you. I’d appreciate if you’d go take care of him.”

And that was it. Before he had time to ask what on earth she meant by that, she’d hung up the phone.

He rolled his eyes and finished his coffee, silently debating with himself how much time he could afford to waste before Gertrude called him again.

His phone began to ring. He didn’t bother to answer.

With exaggerated slowness, he balled up his coffee cup and tossed it in the trash, tipped the waitress, and headed out into the street.

The walk to the nearest tube stop took only a minute. Gerry parked himself outside and waited. It was anyone’s guess what he was looking for, but he supposed he would know it when he saw it.

A train must have just arrived, because a few dozen people were pushing their way up into the air. Gerry looked each of them over, but none in particular stood out to him.

He was about to give up on this whole stupid thing, when another man stumbled out into the air. Unlike the rest, he looked dazed, squinting as if to focus on something in the far distance.

A spiral victim, Gerry guessed. Why on earth couldn’t Gertrude just _say_ things like that?

He approached quickly. Hopefully, he’d be able to talk to this one.

“You okay?” He asked.

The man nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Yes I’m fine, I just… I’m fine.”

Definitely spiral, but not too far gone. Yet.

 “Are you sure? You look pretty… disoriented.”

For some reason, this seemed to infuriate him.

“Yes I’m sure! What, can a man not lose his _bloody_ _glasses_ without everyone in the world trying to make a big deal out of it?”

Glasses? What the hell, Gertrude? Gerry pulled his hands away, stuffing them deep in the safety of his coat pockets.

“Oh. I’m sorry. You looked…”

The man waved him off.

“I know. I look drunk, or high, or whatever.”

“You looked lost.”

It was the best way to explain “I thought you were trapped by an eldritch abomination because my boss is a nigh-omniscient idiot and also an asshole” without worrying some poor guy on his way to work or whatever.

“Yes, well, directions aren’t terribly easy when you can’t see the street signs.”

This poor sod – Jonathan Simms, a voice in his head supplied unhelpfully – clearly wasn’t going to get anywhere on his own. It was a miracle he’d even gotten this far.

“Where are you trying to get to?” Gerry asked with a sigh.

Jonathan rattled off a familiar address. Well, that explained Gertrude’s interest in the matter. Her and her fucking statements.

After a moment of hesitation, he took hold of Jonathan’s hand.

“I’ll get you there.”

They walked in awkward silence for a bit, Gerry carefully navigating Jonathan around the many dangers of London at half past ten in the morning. There were more than he had expected. Beside him, Jonathan had his mouth drawn in a sharp line as he kept trying – unsuccessfully – to see the world around him.

He was kind of cute now that Gerry had a chance to really look at him…

“Are you looking to make a statement?” he asked, attempting to make conversation.

“Job interview,” Jonathan replied.

Gerry gave an involuntary shudder and gripped Jonathan’s hand tighter. He could all too easily imagine this young man disappearing into the archives.

 “What’s the job?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

“Why does it matter?” Jonathan shot back, and Gerry could tell he was already a lost cause.

“It doesn’t. Just… be careful around the archives, okay?”

He could still try.

Jonathan scoffed. “What? Just because it’s an organization for studying the human insistence on the supernatural doesn’t mean they have some sort of closet full of cursed items.” He paused. “But if it makes you feel better, the job is as a researcher. All upstairs work, from what I understand.”

Gerry realized he’d been crushing Jonathan’s hand in his own and hastened to loosen his grip.

“You know the institute?” Jonathan asked, and he sounded so much like Gertrude that Gerry couldn’t help but answer.

“I’ve done some freelance work for the head archivist. Ms. Robinson… isn’t exactly the kindest boss.”

He’d done the research. Very few of Gertrude’s assistants lasted more than a few years, or died of natural causes. He was surprised how very much he hoped Jonathan wouldn’t be the next victim.

“Thanks for the tip. I doubt she’s any worse than my last boss though.”

Gerry couldn’t help but laugh. God, this kid really had no idea.

He was a little sorry to see the Magnus Institute looming ahead of them.

“We’re here,” he murmured.

Jonathan’s head turned on a swivel, searching for something he obviously couldn’t see. Gerry tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the deceptively plain building.

“It’s just across the street. I trust you can at least see enough to recognize a walk signal?”

“You’re not coming?” Jonathan asked. He sounded disappointed.

Gerry briefly considered saying fuck it and ignoring Gertrude’s order to stay out of reach of the archives. But he had not survived this long by making stupid decisions.

“I’d rather not get any closer, if you don’t mind,” he said.

“I suppose it would be rude to take up any more of your time. Thank you, Mr…?”

“Call me…” he hesitated. “…Gerry.”

He smiled at that little rebellion. He would never have dared it when She was… alive? Existing?

“Thank you, Jerry.”

It was nice to hear his name on another person’s lips. For a few moments, he didn’t want to leave. But he was already far too close to the Institute.

He pulled away, and quickly lost himself in the crowd, until he was safely in the shadows some distance away. From there, he watched as Jonathan Simms entered the Institute for the first time.

Hopefully, he would screw up the interview, and get away from it all. Then, maybe Gerry would look him up and ask him out for drinks and listen to him complain about some boring normal job.

Gerry shook his head to dispel the fantasy. As if. The Eye had already claimed that one. This was only a matter of formalizing it.


End file.
